He’s In Hogwarts
by Lady Agatha Hal
Summary: The mutterings and witterings of a certain Sirius Black... still in Azkaban


**He's In Hogwarts**

Lady Agatha Hal

_DISCLAIMER: you know they're J K Rowling's characters. You've read the books. You've heard of her, you have not heard of me.___

_This is a Sirius-angst. He's in Azkaban. If you don't like, don't read. If you can be constructive, please, go right ahead._

**

He sits in a damp, dark cell. Day dissolves into night, the waxing moon sinks, the stars slowly go out, and dawn creeps back in – slivers of light, finding its way through cracks and holes in the walls. There was little point in fixing every flaw. For the place was Azkaban. None could escape. 

Ebony eyes stare senselessly as here and there, incessant shadows turn into small pools of light. Golden glitter on yellow light swallows endless black. Stone floor, cold and wet because of dew, chips everywhere. He smells stuffy air, but after the passing of a Dementor it feels fresh. In the interrupted darkness he lay, mind not turbulent, yet not regular either. He felt himself being sucked of air once again...

~*~

Smoke and smog hung heavily polluting the air, buildings and houses in a haze, edges blurred. Crying and wailing children but background music, fire and flames but scenery, the sky and the stars but pictures of reality. He stood frozen, mesmerized, in complete shock and utter agony. The death of two people he loved most, and it was being blamed on him... but he should take the blame. He was to blame, he was...

~*~

He felt life flow back like ice poured into an empty bucket. Slowly and carefully he bent his fingers and flexed his sore muscles. Good. He could still move. A sigh escaped his dry, bitten lips and he leaned back against the cruel coldness of the walls. His eyes were dropping, but he didn't want to go to sleep. This was one of the precious few moments that he got free of Dementors. He wasn't going to idly waste them.

He stared again, long and hard at thin air, images forming themselves in his mind, shaping a screen of cannot-be-forgotten images. 

Voldemort.

Peter Petegrin.

James Potter.

Lily Potter-Evans.

Harry Potter –

Harry Potter. The boy who _lived_. All through his hard times, knowing that Harry was still alive fed him the energy he needed. But this was rare in Azkaban, for the Dementors suck out of him every happy thought. So he struggled to hold on to the only one that remained to give him immense satisfaction, the one that made sure that the wrath of the Dementors didn't make him go fanatical. Innocence.

Voices. 

He stood up to go to the door of his cell, but fell back down. Calm voices full of authority, very unlike the zany, mania-filled ones of the Azkaban prisoners. They drew nearer, like a haunting hallucination. He shrugged it off as no more than a delusion – who would come willingly to Azkaban? None.

And yet... they were there. He could hear them... and, Merlin's beard, he recognized one! He stood quickly up yet again, stumbling and faltering along the way to the cell door.

  
Of course he knew the voice. It was Cornelius Fudge, the Minister. He was walking between two Dementors, looking incredibly uncomfortable and twitching, but his voice maintained its tranquil. Behind him was a team of men and women, clearly Aurors, and one more Dementor gliding behind. Under his arm he carried the wizard newspaper and his bowler hat sat upon his head. He looked up and his bright blue eyes met the ebony ones staring at him. He started and cleared his throat. 

"Black," he said, and his voice became suddenly harsher and more cowardly. 

"Morning, Minister," the reply came in a low, scratchy voice very rarely used. The Minister raised his head in pride, but dropped the newspaper in blunder. The front figures moved, clearly jostling and elbowing each other. Black looked at the picture in interest. It was of a big group, with goofy smiles upon their faces, and the caption 'Ministry of Magic Employee Scoops Grand Prize' glistened back at him, "are you done with your paper, Minister?"

The Minister looked shocked beyond understanding as he bowed down to pick up the paper, and he nervously looked for support from his team. The looks he received were as perplexed as he was. He cleared his throat yet again, "yes... yes," he stammered. He bent to slip it under his cell door, when abruptly he straightened, "I say. What do you want it for?"

Ebony eyes stared back, "I miss doing the crossword," were the words that erupted from the arid lips. The Minister took various steps back, shock and wonder etched deep in his face. He stood absolutely still for a few moments, then straightened himself and slipped the newspaper under the door. 

"Good day," he said finally and moved away, the flock of Aurors and Dementors following. 

Ebony eyes following the movement of the seldom seen crowd. 

**

He placed the tip of his foot on the edge of the paper, and slid it across the few metres that were his home. He sat back down, his muscles aching from the effort of standing, walking and talking. 

After closing his eyes in a brief rest, he picked up the paper and skimmed the article, subconsciously amazed that he could still read. The moving picture looked back at him compellingly. He counted six boys, a girl, a man and a woman. Two of the boys looked like young adults, mature, sure-footed. The girl looked shy, one boy gangly and another smug. Two identical (clearly twins) boys looked like they were enjoying themselves immensely. The balding man looked happy, the woman ecstatic. He took a deep breath – outside life. So life still went on. The Dementors didn't make it stop for others. Just those in Azkaban. 

He looked closely at the picture, hoping beyond hope that perhaps he'd feel even but shadow of happiness. He scanned the picture long and hard – no such luck. The emptiness that purloined his heart seemed more evident than ever. A black cloud seemed to reside about his head, looming mercilessly. 

He was a prisoner. He could never forget that. 

He took once last withering glace and was about to drop it when he noticed something that sparked his interest afresh. A small, dirty-looking rat lay curled up on the gangly boy's elbow, tail dangling. Its toes were gripping its master's arm tightly, clearly afraid of falling or slipping, yet it was asleep. Or, at least, its eyes were closed. 

His face hardened. A look of utmost scorn and loathing replaced the usual emptiness. His one pet hate. One of the duo he completely despised. 

Peter Petegrin. 

He carefully looked at the thumbnail sized picture of the grimy rat. It was grey and incredibly fat. He, in spite of the shock and irony of the situation, snorted. Little idiot. He was always a fat little jerk. Even Animagi reassembled themselves somewhat before changing, and in Peter Petegrin's case, it was not a good thing. The damp hard walls awaited him to lean back. He did so obligingly. 

He let his mind wander far, to the great halls of Hogwarts, endless corridors, talking portraits (especially the Fat Lady), Charms lessons, the gold cutlery and the mind-scorching food. The peacefulness, and especially Dumbledore. He missed his one and only _home_.

Slivers of light kept falling, new light burning out the old, lighting naught useful on its way, "a waste of beauty in Azkaban," he softly whispered. As if obediently, the light shimmered and dimmed. Little specks of glitter faded and reappeared, yellow light standing. Cracks and crumbling rocks sat waiting for a final push they would never receive, the unyielding iron door with countless charms and spells in its heart. A hole in a corner was filled with human waste, the result of many ill-timed issues. The excrement disappeared thrice weekly, not more to make sure it was a fitting punishment. He turned his nose up and his face away. He was disgusted. 

He happened to glance down at his long nails, his bony fingers, his white, nearly transparent complexion and his scrawny hands. His eyes filled and his long, grimy black hair fell to cover his gaunt face. Skin stretched over his features tightly, making his once-handsome face tedious and menacing. Ebony eyes once beautiful with long lashes now were but a memory of a beauty and held more hatred than thought possible. Black eyelashes cast dark shadows on the white face, which would intimidate and frighten any person looking at it. He was nothing short of either a child or adult's nightmare. 

He seemed a creature. 

And he was going to pay the man – or rat – that made it happen back. The slippery rat was going to die. It was finally going to get what was coming for it. 

A grown man fell back, eyes closed, heart heavy yet light, face peaceful yet tight, fingers softer yet clenched. A misery to all those who didn't know him, a disappointment to those who did. His eyes were closed; his mind was wandering, seeking peaceful dreams. 

"_He's in Hogwarts_..." He murmured into the darkness, unaware of himself. 

**

_Give me feedback please._

_Lady Agatha_


End file.
